The second Trainer Song dismissed us to practice, the room exploded into eight different versions of Eight Letters.
Seungho claimed the corner near the window, muttering the intro and outro under his breath, trying to reconcile how the same voice could open innocently and close with weight.
Sejin perched on the edge of the stage platform, working through his verse with deliberate imperfection, letting certain phrases crack at the edges instead of polishing them smooth.
Jaehyuk stood center, belting:
One skyyyy—
Even though the note wasn't his anymore.
His frustration manifested in volume.
Louder.
Longer.
As if sheer force could reverse Trainer Song's decision.
Woobin occupied the opposite corner, drilling his sustained high note with metronomic precision, marking each attempt in a small notebook he'd produced from somewhere.
